Saint Nicked
Saint Nicked
By Herschel Cozine
Copyright 2011 by Herschel Cozine
Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published as “The Grinch and I” in “Carols and Crimes, Gifts and Grifters,” 2007.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Herschel Cozine and Untreed Reads Publishing
Delinquency Report
The Birds
The Porridge Incident
Saint Nicked
By Herschel Cozine
George took the job as Santa Claus for the Holman Mall in spite of the pay—minimum wage, with two thirty-minute, unpaid breaks a day. He fit the part: short, overweight, in his sixties. A fake beard and square glasses, along with the red suit with faux fur, made him a perfect Santa. And the work was easy, mostly sitting, posing for the camera while kids of all ages climbed on his knee and screamed for their mothers. The candy cane he gave them usually quieted them down, but there were always a few in the course of a day who made him wish he had chosen another line of work.
George didn’t take the job for the money, of course, or for the privilege of giving out candy canes to ungrateful, squalling kids. The reason was simple—it was the perfect cover for his line of work. George was a shoplifter.
During his breaks, George was free to go into any shop without being questioned or scrutinized by clerks or security. He was met with friendly smiles, a season greeting, and a wave of the hand. There is something about a Santa Claus suit that elicits trust. Santa Claus is beloved by all, no matter who is in the suit.
And the bag he carried made it easy to store items he would never be able to take otherwise. He had quick hands, a requirement for his profession. With a flick of the hand an item was transferred from the display case to his coat pocket. The size of the loot had to be within the limits of his pocket. Even with loose-fitting shirts and coats, the booty could not be too large, or the telltale bulge could result in an arrest. He had learned this the hard way years ago. But now, with the bag, he was able to walk away with larger, more desirable merchandise.
So George, the shoplifting Santa, was happy in his work—at least the part where he wasn’t dealing with kids and parents. His only regret was that he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Just think of the money he could have saved on Christmas presents over the years. Well, this year he would be more than generous with his gift giving. Unmarried, he nevertheless had siblings, nephews, nieces, and an aged father to buy for. He might even throw in a watch or apron for his landlady. The old witch could use some softening up. She was threatening to raise the rent, and George would have to look for another place to live if she did. He was not a wealthy man. Shoplifting didn’t pay the rent.
The first few days on the job, George limited his break time to “casing the joint.” That way the clerks and security personnel would become accustomed to his presence and leave him to his nefarious activity. And, as Christmas neared, the stores became more crowded, offering him further protection from unwanted prying eyes.
His first foray was at Penney’s. In the course of ten minutes he had appropriated a pair of Deerfoam slippers, (size 10, his father’s size), two packages of socks, and a necktie for his younger brother. He ambled out of the store with his sack over his shoulder, waved cheerfully to the clerk behind the men’s clothing counter and wished him a “Merry Christmas.” He ignored the man in the dark suit who was dutifully studying the hosiery rack, pretending to be a customer. Gilbert, longtime security man for Penney’s, stood out like a sore thumb. George had developed an instinct over the years to spot and avoid men like Gilbert.
At Macy’s, George visited the cookware department where he found a set of carving knives. He looked up and down the aisle. An older couple was engaged in a spirited conversation, apparently over which frying pan to buy. A few feet in the other direction was a man busily talking on a cell phone. George smiled at the irony of it. Cell phones keep one connected to a far away voice, while isolating him from someone standing a few feet away. With a deft sleight of hand, George became the owner of the knives.
By the end of his second week on the job, George had gifts for everyone in the family. He was particularly proud of the gift he had “purchased” for Grover, his six-year-old grandnephew. A fire truck, complete with siren, flashing lights and a hose that squirted water. Grover had admired it on an earlier trip to the mall, and had even asked George to get it for him. Of course, he didn’t realize he was asking his uncle. He was sitting on his lap at the mall when the request was made. George had given him a candy cane, patted him on the head, and promised him that he would grant his wish if he would be a good boy for the next four weeks. This, he knew, would be a daunting task for Grover, but the incentive was great enough to give it a try. Grover swallowed hard and nodded, but the look in his eyes told George that he was hoping Santa would be too busy to keep tabs on him. A chip off the old block, George noted fondly as he watched him walk away. He determined he would get the fire truck. It was the least he could do for his favorite relative.
It was a week before Christmas. George had stolen enough wrapping paper to take care of all the gifts. He had completed the task of wrapping and tagging, and had carefully stored the gifts under his bed where they would stay until Christmas Eve. He fixed a glass of eggnog, fortified it with a touch of rum, and kicked off his shoes. The TV was showing
A Christmas Carol
, one of the many versions of Dickens’ classic, starring Albert Finney. In George’s mind, it was the best of the lot. He settled back in his recliner, avoiding the broken spring. Some day he would buy a new chair, since it was impossible, even for a man of his talent, to shoplift one.
Christmas Future had just exited, leaving a transformed Scrooge to dance around in his nightgown, when the doorbell rang. George sighed and stood up. Glancing at the TV as he walked to the door, he opened it to see a total stranger standing on the other side.
“Mister Grimes?” the man said.
George studied the man a moment before answering. Medium build, ordinary face, brown short-cropped hair, he wouldn’t draw a second look in a crowd. Yet he looked vaguely familiar.
“Who are you?” George replied. “What do you want?”
“My name is Pierce. Stanley Pierce. May I come in?”
“Not until you tell me what you want,” George growled.
“Of course,” Pierce said amiably. “It concerns your job at the mall. Santa.”
“What about it?”
“Please, sir,” Pierce said in a low voice. “It would be better if we talked inside. I don’t think you would want the neighbors to hear what I have to say.”
George scowled at the man, then stepped aside and let him in.
“This better be good,” he said.
Pierce surveyed the room with a hint of disapproval, but said nothing. Gesturing toward a chair, he said, “May I?”
“Yeah. Go ahead. Sit.”
Pierce sat down gingerly, as if the chair contained snakes, surveyed the room a second time, his eyes finally settling on George. “This is a matter of utmost importance,” he said.
George returned the man’s gaze but said nothing. He had learned that silence was a virtue for a man in his profession.
“How should I start?” Pierce asked. Then, before George could speak, he went on. “I’m an employee of Holman’s Mall. Security.”
The word startled George and he sat up straight.
“When you were hired, I did a background check,” Pierce went on. “Routine, you know.” He took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it and studied it through his bifocals. “In 1979 you were convicted of shoplifting in Santa Fe, and served thirty days.” He glanced at George with an apologetic smile. George met his gaze in silence.
Pierce cleared his throat and went on. “In 1984 you were charged with petty larceny—shoplifting—in Phoenix. The charges were dropped when you made restitution.” Another smile, less apologetic. “These charges raised a red flag, and I decided to keep an eye on you.”
George shifted in his chair and scowled at Pierce. “That was a long time ago. I made a few mistakes. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Agreed. But given your history it seemed prudent to monitor your activities.” A meaningful glance made George squirm. He could see where this was going and he didn’t want to go there.
Pierce folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. Extracting another paper, he repeated the process of unfolding and studying it. “On Wednesday, three weeks ago, you visited Penney’s. While there you acquired some merchandise without paying for it. To be specific, one pair of Deerfoam slippers, two packages of socks, and a necktie.”
George started to protest, but Pierce stopped him with a raised hand. “At Mark’s Apparel, Etc., you lifted a watch, sweatshirt—extra large—and several packets of handkerchiefs.”
“I don’t…” George sputtered.
“Please, sir,” Pierce said quietly. “Let me continue.”
“No,” George said. “I’ve heard enough.” He studied Pierce with a professional eye. “I don’t remember seeing you around. I can’t believe you were following me.”
Pierce smiled. “You’re good, Mister Grimes. Very good. But so am I. Avoiding detection is as important to my profession as it is to yours.”
“So,” George said with a sigh, “what now? Are you turning me in? Why didn’t you do something at the time?”
“I had my reasons,” Pierce said. “Are you willing to make a deal?”
“What kind of deal?”
Pierce looked around the room furtively. “I am a fair-minded man. And a compassionate one. You see, each Christmas I find a family in need and help them. A present or two to each member. A bag of groceries. And a turkey for their Christmas dinner.” He cleared his throat and sat up straight. “This is all done anonymously.”
How noble
, George thought, but said nothing.
“I’m a man of modest means. As you can see, this can be expensive. I must depend on donations in order to continue this effort.”
“Donations?” George let the word slip off his tongue with an edge of sarcasm.
Pierce ignored the inflection and nodded. “The Marines have Toys for Tots, a very worthwhile endeavor. But I like to think that my way is a little more personal, if not as far reaching. It does my heart such good to see the family I helped enjoy a Christmas that would otherwise be difficult.” A sigh, somewhere between contentment and regret, escaped his lips. “But, alas. I must rely on people such as yourself to continue.”
“You want the loot,” George said.
“A rather indelicate way of phrasing it, but, yes. All donations gratefully accepted.”
“How much of it?”
“Oh, all of it, of course.”
George stood up angrily. “No way! I worked hard for that and I got people of my own to take care of. I’ll give you half.”
Pierce’s laugh was without humor. “Mister Grimes, you don’t appreciate the position you are in. A word from me and you are facing serious jail time. This is no longer petty theft. By my accounting you have taken over one thousand dollars in merchandise.”
“You’d look bad reporting me at this late date,” George said. “You’re in this as deep as I am.”
“On the contrary,” Pierce replied. “An anonymous phone call to my supervisor. He would ask me to look into it. A surprise visit to your home, and…” He held up the list.
George snorted. “It’s too late for that. You can’t prove I didn’t pay for the stuff. It’s in my house and I don’t need receipts. Hell, who keeps receipts once they get the stuff home?”
“Oh, I anticipated that,” Pierce said smugly. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cell phone.
“These gadgets come in handy,” he said. “They allow you to talk to anyone no matter where you may be. Like Macy’s for example.”
“I don’t understand,” George said.
“They also take pictures.” Pierce pressed a button and held the phone out for George to see.
“Recognize anyone?” Pierce said.
George flushed as he looked at himself putting a set of carving knives in his bag. He reached for the phone, but Pierce pulled it away.
“You were the guy talking on the phone,” George swore under his breath.